


Second Chances

by authoressjean



Series: The Second Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Gen, I am out of my mind, I can't believe I'm writing this, I'm messing with canon and you can't stop me, M/M, This is all Dani's fault, goes AU right before the BoFA, goes AU slightly for Sherlock as well, sorry - Freeform, spoilers for all episodes of Sherlock BBC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran can't pull the trigger on John Watson to save his own hide, and what the hell is it with the doctor, anyway? Then Gandalf shows up, meddlesome wizard, and reminds him none too gently of his past life: as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of a company that had once included a small hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. One that looked decidedly like John Watson. And this would be the perfect chance to make things right with Bilbo the way he really hadn't been able to before he died, and that's when Gandalf tells him John doesn't remember being Bilbo, and to leave him alone.</p><p>Right. Like that's going to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely completely all Dani's fault. She is without a doubt the worst enabler in the history of enabling ever. If this is wretched, blame her.
> 
> A/N: In which I finally pull myself from writing my novel and return to fanfiction in a pairing I've never written in and a fandom I was in so long ago Ao3 didn't even EXIST. Apologies as I play with canon in both fandoms.
> 
> Also, there will be angst. Because that's what I like to write.

He could’ve made the shot. Should’ve, even. Watson was there in the open, and even without the call ordering him to do it, his fingers itched on the trigger finger. Even through the night, Watson’s lighter hair was easy enough to see. Perfect shot. But he couldn’t do it.

Watson moved out of sight. Sebastian cursed and pulled his rifle back. Three times now he’d had the man in his sights, and three times he couldn’t pull the trigger. Orders from Moriarty were clear: Watson had to die. But just like Moriarty couldn’t seem to kill Holmes, he couldn’t seem to end Watson’s life.

It wasn’t because Watson was an innocent. He was innocent, all right, even though he’d gone to war. And it wasn’t because he’d been in Afghanistan, either, and served much like Sebastian had. No, it was something else. Something that stayed his quick finger every time.

The first time he’d locked his sights on Watson, it had been obvious. The red dot had been a clear sign to Holmes that Watson would suffer a quick fate if either stepped out of line. Watching Watson stand with the bomb on his chest, though, had…unsettled him. And if there was anything Sebastian Moran was not when it came time to taking a shot, it was unsettled. It hadn’t been because of the bomb possibly going off. The look on his face had brought almost a memory to mind that Sebastian couldn’t quite catch.

Then Watson had taken Moriarty captive, and hadn’t that been a shocker. Bravery and stupidity in its finest forms. He’d given the doctor an approving grin. Laying his life down for someone he obviously cared for. Too bad it had backfired on him, but still, points for effort.

He hadn’t been able to finish the job then, though, and he couldn’t do it now. Even if Moriarty gave the kill order, he wasn’t quite certain he could do it. Put Holmes in his sights, he wouldn’t have a problem, but something about John Watson wouldn’t let him pull the trigger.

He cursed under his breath and watched Watson reappear near the edge of the square. He bet Watson didn’t even know he was being watched. Sebastian was very good at what he did. He should be, for the amount he got paid. It wasn’t like he really used the money. For some reason, the thought of the fortune he had stored up only ever made him sick to his stomach. Most men would appreciate the wealth, hell, even spend a bit of it. Not Sebastian. He kept his clothes practical and comfortable. The long black coat had been the most expensive purchase he’d ever made besides his motorcycle. That was all he’d spent it on, truly.

Thinking about the wealth only made him think about the price tag Moriarty was promising on Watson and Holmes whenever he deigned to allow their deaths. Watson…Watson would be hard to do, for whatever fucking reason that kept Sebastian from doing his job. A man with such a small frame, sharp eyes, and lighter hair should’ve been easy to take down. And yet…and yet he couldn’t do it.

Holmes, though. Something dark and deep rose in his chest whenever he thought about Holmes. The man was brilliant – no doubt there. But his eyes only left Sebastian with an unparalleled sense of fury…and fear. God but what he wouldn’t do to pull the trigger on that man. No matter what face Watson would carry when the deed was done.

He all but threw his rifle into the case, furious at himself. The hell was it with that man? Why couldn’t Sebastian do what he needed to do? Maybe he was losing his touch. He needed to work with anyone else besides Moriarty. Maybe then he could get his edge back. He’d taken down dignitaries, stopped men with missiles, brought down entire camps of men. There’d been no fear, no second guessing.  
Yet this one man, this one, small man…

“Fuck,” Sebastian muttered. He grabbed his case and descended from the rooftop he’d been perched on. Moriarty hadn’t ordered a hit today, but he’d wanted to know if he could do it. If he could take Watson out. When he’d reached for the trigger, though, his fingers had frozen. Just as they usually did. He couldn’t do it.

He swung himself off the fire escape and landed in the small alleyway between buildings. Maybe he could knife the little bastard up close and be done with it, when the time came. Maybe this wasn’t a distance thing. Maybe he had to get up close.

And maybe he’d get up to Watson’s face and see those eyes up close and flounder even more than he had on the rooftop.

Those eyes. He’d seen them before, somewhere. Maybe in Afghanistan. But he knew those eyes, knew the face that went with them. He just…couldn’t place it. It always seemed right there, in the front of his mind, and them the image would fade. “Why can’t I remember?” he growled. And now here he was, talking to himself in an alleyway. Lovely. He headed for the street.

He got two steps before something caught his leg and tripped him. Taken completely by surprise, he hit the ground – hard – and swung around to his attacker. An elderly man in a dark coat stood above him, face hidden in shadow, his cane already stopping Sebastian’s movements. Sebastian stilled as the cane approached his neck. Knife, gun, it didn’t matter: if the man before him was capable of sneaking up on him without a sound, he’d have a weapon in that cane of his. It came up higher, resting against his forehead, and Sebastian tensed.

Piercing eyes caught his in the dark. Then, he took Sebastian by surprise for the second time that evening. “Do you want to remember?” the man asked.

Sebastian stared. The cane tapped his forehead, and he flinched. “Do you?” the man asked, his voice echoing in the alleyway.

Unbidden, the response tumbled from his lips. “Yes.” God only knew what his mouth was saying for him when he should be wrestling the cane from his skull-

The cane fired. Gun, Sebastian managed to think, except everything kept getting brighter and brighter. There was no pain as what he assumed was a bullet went through his head. Just the bright light that burned and engulfed him.

When it came to him, it was like a flood. Names and faces he’d never known but known so well. The journey they’d shared, the loss of Erebor, the reclaiming of the mountain, the battle, dying with clarity, too much clarity, Kili and Fili falling, casting out his friend, his dear, dear friend, his last words he’d never said to his friend-

Bilbo.  
When everything came back into focus, the face above him was no longer hidden. “Gandalf,” he breathed.

Gandalf smiled. “I go by a different name now, Thorin, as do you. I am part of the British government that you fought for as Sebastian Moran…before you were discharged.” He tilted his head down. “Dishonorably discharged, I believe it was.”

“Unfairly,” Sebastian countered angrily. “And if you know so much about my current life, you should know it was unfair. They were looking for an excuse to get rid of me, and they found one.”

“Agreed,” Gandalf said calmly. “But you were still cast out.”

The blow hurt a lot more than he’d thought it would. Betrayed for doing the right thing, cast out and left unwanted. He’d been angry about it then. Furious, livid enough to turn into a gun for hire.

Now, though. The memories filtered in from a lifetime ago; now his discharge was almost just. He’d cast Bilbo aside, and the remembered look of the hobbit’s resigned hurt was almost enough to crack his heart into pieces. Bilbo had done what he’d thought was right, too. To save them all. And in the end, he’d been right. His face when he’d been exiled-

He froze. That face. Those eyes. He knew that face, had wondered all this time-

He was halfway to his feet when the cane nudged him down. “He doesn’t remember,” Gandalf said, almost sounding apologetic about it. “I’ve been following him – and you – for quite some time. It’s evident he doesn’t remember in this lifetime.”

“This lifetime?” Sebastian sputtered. It was all he could do while his mind chanted the same shocking truth again and again. Watson is Baggins. John is Bilbo. Oh god, John is Bilbo. No wonder he’d never been able to pull the damn trigger. The thought of it now, of shooting his good friend, of killing Bilbo-

“Easy does it,” Gandalf said as Sebastian nearly upheaved onto the ground. A hand, warm and familiar, rested on his shoulder as he choked. “Gently, Thorin. Be gentle to yourself. You didn’t know, which was why I intervened.”

“You wouldn’t have, otherwise?” Sebastian rasped. Or was he Thorin now? God his head was fucking spinning. “You would’ve left me to shoot him-“

“I’d planned on telling you at a time, since I had finally found you, you blasted dwarf, but your insistence to follow Watson stepped up my timetable!” Gandalf took a breath, then let it out slowly. “I am trying to help you,” he finished, voice much softer.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. His eyes were fixed on the street out before him, outside of the alleyway. Somewhere, a little south of here, John Watson was walking without a clue that someone had tried to snipe him, had tried to kill him. He was walking out there with no clue that he was Bilbo Baggins of Hobbit lore, like something in Lord of the Rings.

Wait.

“Those books-“

“Ah, yes, the Tolkien books,” Gandalf said as Sebastian whirled around in bewilderment. “That’ll take a bit more explaining. Up on your feet; there’s a coffee shop nearby. I have to tell you, that’s perhaps my favorite part about this century. A good espresso and latte can warm up your insides just as well as the ale from the Green Dragon Inn.” He paused, and Sebastian watched as his face turned soft with what looked like longing. Sadness. Regret.

He knew what those felt like. In the span of his last day alive as Thorin, he’d encountered all of them far too vividly for his own liking. All of them had involved one hobbit who had been his friend, his protector a time or two, the gentle Halfling soul Thorin had begun calling his own. And he’d cast him out for that damned Arkenstone. 

“Thorin Oakenshield, now is not the time to face the past. There’s coffee and sweets down the lane. I’ll answer what questions I can there, but not here in the dark.”

Gandalf was all but out of the alleyway. Sebastian slowly pulled himself to his feet, remembering at the last minute to grab his case. After a moment he headed off after Gandalf. If there was one thing he remembered about the wizard, it was that he wasn’t one to wait.

 

“The Tolkien series,” Gandalf said, coffee to his lips, “is quite literally the most surprising thing that ever came around. Until that point, I’d assumed I would have to be the one to tell the story.”

Sebastian only nodded. The shop was nearly empty, though at least still open for a bit longer. Currently he was nursing something dark but aromatic. It felt warm between his hands, almost too hot to bear. Gandalf was drinking his as if it was ale from the Shire.

And goddammit there he was again, thinking about the Shire and hobbits and Bilbo. He wondered if Bilbo had ever thought of Thorin’s last words, if they’d meant anything to him from a dwarven king who’d cast him out.

“You talked of previous lives. Have I ever been reborn before…now?” Sebastian asked, pushing aside the topic of the novels for a moment.

“Not that I know of. Possibly. Bilbo, however, I know has been reincarnated several times. This is his sixth time around. Even without that mop of hair I would’ve known him anywhere. His eyes are too deep and knowing.”

Sebastian could attest to that. “Why do we get brought back?” he asked quietly. “What’s the point?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t get brought back, I simply live on,” Gandalf replied. He took another long pull from his mug and let out a soft sigh. “You know, I will give this century one thing: they know their coffee.”

“Gandalf,” Sebastian said firmly.

“It’s all in the books,” Gandalf told him. “Tolkien somehow discovered the truth, the history, of Middle-Earth. One can only presume that it was Bilbo who told him.”

Something akin to hope began to flutter in his chest. “Then he remembers,” he said.

Gandalf almost looked like he pitied him, and Sebastian barely managed to quell the urge to reach for his hand pistol. Meddling wizards. “He did then,” Gandalf said. “Not now. He’s given absolutely no indication that he remembers a thing in this lifetime. And if anything should’ve tipped him, it should’ve been Holmes. Given that he interacted with Holmes more than anyone else did back in Middle-Earth.”

Holmes was in Middle-Earth? “I don’t remember his face,” Sebastian said, frowning. “I don’t remember him at all.”

“Yes you do,” Gandalf said. He cradled his mug and gave Sebastian a long gaze over the top. “You know exactly who he was. Think about how you react to Holmes now. Think about what draws you to recognize him.”

It was his eyes. That fierce, glinting gaze that was both calm yet filled with too much knowledge all at the same time. Sebastian paused, thinking of his journey with Bilbo. They’d been apart a short amount of time, but only once had he seen a being whom just Bilbo had spoken to at length.

“Smaug,” he breathed. When Gandalf said nothing, Sebastian shook his head. “No. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I do not know why Smaug was reborn,” the wizard said, leaving Sebastian to stare in disbelief. “Only that he was. Currently, he is busy becoming ‘human’ through the careful friendship between himself and Dr. John Watson.”

Watson. Bilbo. “You’re leaving Bilbo in the hands of Smaug,” he said, stunned. Then he was leaning across the table, fury coiled up inside him like a snake ready to bite. “Wizard or not, I will tear you apart-“

“I make this decision to better both of their lives,” Gandalf said shortly. “When I found Bilbo, he was alone, recovering badly from being wounded. When I realized I had also found Smaug, I hoped for a chance to help him. It’s done good things for the both of them. John and Sherlock have sort of strengthened one another. And I intend to leave it that way.”

“Gandalf-“

“He was alone, Thorin. Wounded. Hurting in more ways than one. This was about helping Bilbo.”

Sebastian sat back in his chair. The thought was almost more than he could stand. “I had hoped Bilbo’s life would be more pleasant, were it to repeat,” he murmured, and he felt more like the king he’d been than the marksman he was now. For a moment, he could almost imagine he was in Erebor, in front of the fire, speaking with Gandalf about matters of dwarves and land and one Halfling who’d meant so much in the end of all things.

“It has been, to an extent,” Gandalf assured him. “He’s lived a long life, saved fellow soldiers when he was wounded, was declared a hero.”

“Those are all things inside of him, not things the world inflicts upon him.”

Gandalf slowly raised his eyebrow. “For someone who washed his hands of the hobbit, you seem awfully focused on defending him.”

Sebastian could feel his cheeks warming, and just like that, they were back in the shop, and he was no longer a king. “I wronged him,” he said. “I buggered it up, and for what? When he was right all along. He saw what I couldn’t. I only hoped my last words would try and repair some of the damage I did.”

“You loved him.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes went out the window to the street instead. It felt like forever since he’d been just Sebastian Moran, wondering why in the hell he couldn’t shoot one man. God, had it only been an hour or so since he’d become a man with two lives inside his head?

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Thorin.”

“It’s not…that love,” Sebastian said, eyes still gazing outside. “I don’t think it was. It might’ve been, if I’d given it a chance. But he was dear to me.” So, so dear. The hobbit had stood taller than some of the dwarves he’d known, in more ways than one. His courage, his quick thinking, his innocence in looking at life. His devotion. That had been worth more than all the gold in the mountain.

“Not like…like Fili and Kili,” he managed, and the thought of his nephews, his sister-sons, was almost more than he could bear. He wondered if they’d been given a second chance at life. God he hoped so. “He wasn’t like family. He was…an unexpected friend. A cherished friend.” And if Thorin had been happier when Bilbo had smiled, well, it was of no consequence to anyone but himself. Bilbo had burrowed a small hobbit hole in Thorin’s heart, and god, he was a fucking sap. Besides, it wasn’t of much thought now, now was it?

When he finally pulled his gaze from outdoors, Gandalf was eyeing him in that same way that meant the wizard was up to something. “You’ll keep your spells to that side of the table,” he warned.

Gandalf just seemed amused. “I have no spells here. I was merely observing a man who’s listening to his heart a few lifetimes too late.” He took another long sip of coffee, then finally set his mug down. “Did you ever read the Lord of the Rings series, Thorin?”

“Sebastian,” he corrected for the first time. “I want nothing to do with the fool I was.”

“Do you not discount who you were as nothing for the mistakes you made,” Gandalf said firmly. “And I’ll call you whom I wish. Did you read the books?”

Sebastian sighed. “Back in school, I think. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you remember how The Hobbit ended?”

He rolled his eyes but tried to remember. “The Battle of Five Armies. Death. Destruction. Bilbo went back to the Shire.”

“After the battle,” Gandalf said, and there Sebastian paused. “In the book, Bilbo goes back to the Shire after the battle.”

“He left before that,” Sebastian insisted. “He left. I never saw him during the battle.” Oh god, Bilbo hadn’t really stayed, had he? Or been hurt?

“He survived a great many years, have no fear,” Gandalf assured him. “He lasted to a ripe old age before he sailed over to the Lands of Aman.”

The Undying Lands. “That’s quite an honor,” Sebastian said, impressed. Then he stopped. “If he went West, then he shouldn’t-“

“He passed on during the voyage,” the wizard admitted. “He never made it to Aman.”

As much as the stench of elves would never stop lingering in his mind, it was an honor to be taken to the Undying Lands. One no other hobbit had ever before been given. To know that he had almost made it, but died in the voyage, twisted something deep in his chest.

“To return to my point, the books are different than the truth. In the book, Bilbo stays. He is there with you in your dying moments on the battlefield.”

The wizard leaned back while that sunk in. “There was a farewell, in the book,” Sebastian said, remembering the ending now. There’d been forgiveness on both sides, reconciliation, as Bilbo had watched Thorin die. Everything Thorin had begged for in the letter he’d dictated for Bilbo as he laid dying.

Gandalf nodded. “Before you cursed yourself about for having been unfair to Bilbo, I thought I ought to tell you. Apparently he wished for the same, much as you did, and still do.”

“Did Bilbo write the novels…?”

“No. But every fiber of my being tells me that one small reincarnated hobbit met with one author, and a story was relayed. This was how Bilbo told the story.”

It wasn’t how the story had really gone. Thorin had all but thrown Bilbo out of Erebor himself, and hadn’t been satisfied until his dwarf scouts had assured him the hobbit was past Mirkwood. Then the battle had been upon them, and he’d been struck down. Clarity at what he’d done to his beloved Halfling had come too late. Bofur had found him, he thought. Thorin had dictated a letter to be sent to Bilbo. Begging for forgiveness, regret at not being able to reconcile in person. Hoping the words would mean something to him. Then, he remembered nothing.

It looked like his message had made it to the Shire. Sebastian smiled. “Good,” he said. “I’m…glad.”

“Good. Then I trust you’ll steer clear of Watson and end this debacle with Moriarty.”

Steer clear? “Excuse me?” Sebastian said.

“You can’t tell John that you’re Thorin. You’re Sebastian Moran; both Watson and Holmes would know you on sight. Moriarty’s tossed your name into the pot, and they’ll be armed and ready for you. You may have been Thorin Oakenshield in the life before today, but you are Sebastian Moran, gun for hire, now. Do not, whatever you do, tell him about his previous lives.”

His heart fell. “He may never remember,” Sebastian argued.

Gandalf stood, pulling his cane to him as he once had his staff. “He may not,” he agreed. “If he doesn’t, you’ll have to live content with the fact that Bilbo helped write the Tolkien novels, and rewrote your ending to a more favorable one. Do not engage or meet Watson or Holmes.”

“What if I need your help?” Sebastian asked as Gandalf headed for the door. The wizard paused, then cast a disapproving eye back at him.

“If you don’t know how to call for my aid by now, then I can’t help you, in this lifetime or any lifetime.” With that, he strode out the door.

Sebastian watched until he disappeared, then let out a sigh. “Bloody wizard,” he muttered. He took a quick sip of his coffee – ice cold now and absolutely disgusting – and stood to leave. A piece of paper on the table caught his eye, and he caught it before it could fall off the table.

Numbers were laid out in a recognizable fashion. Sebastian smirked and shook his head. Cell phone number.

“You’re still a pain,” he said to the paper as he tucked it into his pocket. Call for his aid indeed. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to, since his idea of helping wasn’t much help at all. Except the news about the books…that had helped ease something inside of him he hadn’t known was troubled.

He knew one thing, though. He couldn’t hurt John Watson. He’d let Sherlock go out of sheer respect to Watson. That meant he had to have a phone chat with Moriarty, and that was never fun. Add to that the fact that he apparently wasn’t allowed near Watson, and his life was looking so very chipper.

Lovely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy good gravy. Apparently you all approve of my friend's meddling. Thanks for the comments and the kudos, y'all!
> 
> A few people have wondered about Gandalf, and who he is in this modern day setting. I've actually imagined him to be, well, Gandalf...but with quite a few fingers in quite a few pots. John meeting his friend Mike in the park that day, for example, was just too much of a coincidence. So Gandalf's been keeping himself out of John/Bilbo's sight, perhaps on purpose, perhaps for his own schemes. You never know with a wizard. But when I imagine Gandalf, I see Ian McKellen's wide eyes and bright grin.
> 
> Have another chapter.

_Previously:_

_He had to have a phone chat with Moriarty, and that was never fun. Add to that the fact that he apparently wasn’t allowed near Watson, and his life was looking so very chipper._

_Lovely._

Which was why, of course, he found himself facing down one Dr. John Watson not even a week later.

The phone call to Moriarty had done nothing. Moriarty had simply stated that if Moran was unable to finish the job, then that was fine: he’d find someone else to pull the trigger. Sebastian had quickly turned it into a wealth thing, and even as he’d haggled for a higher price, he’d wanted to gag. God. No wonder he couldn’t stand looking at what he earned. He remembered too well what treasure had done to him as Thorin.

Working for Moriarty at least put him in the position of keeping an eye on John and protecting him. That was, until John had gone and gotten himself kidnapped. Sebastian recalled an encounter with three trolls that looked similar to this situation, complete with Bilbo being suspended in midair. Except this time, Watson’s arms were trussed above his head as he hung from a hook, and a dark cloth bag was draped over his head.

One of the other men there gave a laugh as he pulled the cloth off of John’s head. Sebastian watched in concern when it seemed to take a minute longer for John to focus. “’Preciate your help on this,” the henchman said to Sebastian. “Don’t quite recall your help bein’ required, but it’s well thought of, all the same.”

“Extra muscle, nothing more,” Sebastian said curtly. In truth, he’d used his name to get into the accursed warehouse to ensure John made it out safely. This wasn’t Moriarty’s show, kidnapping John, but Sebastian Moran was well known and respected in dens like these. He wasn’t going to argue about morals, not when it meant he could keep an eye on John. “How hard did you hit him?” he couldn’t help but ask when John kept blinking slowly, too slowly.

The second man, gun trained on John, shrugged. “Hard enough to put him out. Little bugger’s a fighter.” He gave a laugh. Sebastian wanted to shoot him.

John finally shook his head as if to clear it and began scanning the room. “Welcome to our humble abode, Doctor,” the first man said with a mocking bow. “We just want to talk to you and Sherlock about that butting in you keep doing. S’just business, that’s all.”

John began to reply, then stopped, gaze falling to rest on Sebastian. Recognition widened his eyes, and Sebastian froze. _Bilbo_ , he thought, and oh god, he knew, he _knew_ John had to have remembered.

Wide eyes quickly narrowed. “Sebastian Moran,” John bit out, and Sebastian’s heart fell. “Bit out of your comfort zone. I hadn’t thought you were part of the drug circle.” He glanced at the other two men and rolled his eyes. “More like a drug _line_ ,” he muttered, and Sebastian bit back a grin.

“Oi! You’d best shut up!” the second man yelled, bringing the gun close enough that John had to lean his head away. Not that he could move all that well: with his arms pulled tight above him, his feet barely brushing the floor, John was pretty well stuck.

“Enough,” Sebastian ordered to pull the gunman away from John, and he knew he could hear a kingly growl in his tone. Apparently, so did the henchman, because they both backed away. John looked confused. “Watson isn’t our concern, Holmes is.” There was no need to fake anything with his tone there: his derision came through loud and clear. He still didn’t know why the wizard felt the need to let John stay with the enemy, but for now, Sebastian would have to trust him.

Unfortunately, his words didn’t settle well with John. “If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you tossers anywhere _near_ Sherlock,” John snapped, “you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Not the best words to choose, mate,” the first one said. “Got ways of changing that, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t like them.”

John lifted his head as best he could to meet the man’s gaze straight on, like a soldier prepared to die for a cause, and fuck, Sebastian had to do something. Unfortunately, the king he’d been only made his fingers ache for a blade, for Orcrist to swing above his head and straight through these two men. All Sebastian had at his disposal was a short range pistol, and it was tucked away. He could get the job done, but with possible harm to John.

That meant words. Which Thorin had never been good at, and Sebastian wasn’t much better with. But with John’s life on the line, something had to be done.

“Oh for god’s sake,” he muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. The two men, one of who had been pulling out a switchblade, stopped.

“Got som’fin’ to say, Moran?” the first one drawled.

“Yeah, actually, I do,” he said. He began sauntering forward towards John. “Threatening him isn’t going to do a lick of good. He’s a soldier. He knows how to take pain for the sake of pain. For the sake of honor. No, that’s not how to do it.”

“I could still skin him,” the second one said. “Wouldn’t that work?”

_“The best way to cook a dwarf is to…to skin them!”_

Sebastian paused as the memory floated through his mind. Unfortunately, he doubted sunrise would take care of the two dangerous dumbasses here. “Might make you happier, though you wouldn’t enjoy the cleanup,” Sebastian drawled. John was watching him warily as he got closer, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. He wasn’t Thorin, a friend; he was Sebastian Moran. Gandalf had been right: John had known him by sight.

“No, you’re going to have to look at this differently,” Sebastian continued. He was close enough now that he could see the individual eyelashes on John’s face. John looked more tense with each passing moment. “There’s other ways to crack an egg.”

Like telling one of the dearest people to your heart to leave and never return. That, that had definitely cracked Bilbo. Sebastian pushed the thought away.

The men backed up, looking content enough to let Sebastian do what they assumed was the ‘dirty work’. Fear was starting to creep into John’s eyes, fear Sebastian knew he was putting there, and it turned his gut. If he was going to keep John out of their hands, though, fear was key. “And he knows it,” Sebastian said quietly, and John’s began breathing unsteadily. There had to be some way to let him know that it was going to be okay. Sebastian took a deep breath in and leaned closer, even while John tried to pull away.

“Do you know it, Moran?”

Holmes. John all but sank back in relief. The two clowns immediately cocked their weapons, but Sebastian took a little longer to turn around. Holmes was, of course, nowhere to be seen. “Do you know what it feels like to be cracked?”

 _More than you do, you bastard,_ Sebastian wanted to growl. “I highly doubt you’re here to discuss omelet techniques,” he fired back instead. The warehouse echoed, keeping Sherlock’s position hidden. He’d be in a place to watch and make a calculated move, that much he knew. And Holmes wasn’t going to let John out of his sight.

“Hardly. Though your presence at all is…intriguing. What concerns you with a flimsily put together drug ring?”

“Line,” John supplied from behind him, and there was a low chuckle from Holmes. John gave a quick grin, and Sebastian wanted to shoot something at the genuine cheer coming from the man.

“True. All lines have a point of contact, a beginning that flows along nicely, with maybe a few ups and downs…until it ends.”

Doors slammed on the west side of the building, and even while the two men began running towards the doors and shouting, Sebastian backed away and grabbed John. “Don’t-!” John said, startled, until Sebastian cut him off with a hand on his mouth.

“Relax,” he ordered, and there was the kick he’d been expecting. He ignored the force of the kicks, which, thankfully, weren’t powerful on account of the awkward way John was hanging, and caught the smaller man around the middle. Bound hands lifted off the hook they’d hung from, and John kicked out enough that they both went down and backwards.

“Drop your weapons!” rang through the warehouse, and not a second after that, shots began firing. Sebastian immediately grabbed John and hauled him towards the safety of nearby crates. John struggled to get his feet under him, whether to fight or to help run, Sebastian didn’t know. As soon as they were behind the wooden crates, Sebastian pushed John down to the floor. _Stay down_ , he wanted to order, but what the hell good was that going to do?

John stared up at him in bewilderment. Sebastian wasn’t going to get a better chance to run away, but he couldn’t help but gaze at John. For a second he looked so much like Bilbo that he couldn’t breathe. His Halfling, whole and unhurt and gazing at him with wide eyes. He almost took a step towards him.

Almost. He’d been Sebastian Moran for long enough to know when to go, and right then and there, he had no time left. With one last glance at John, he quickly turned and headed for the nearest exit. The building wasn’t surrounded, and he made it away and down the road unsuspected. A nearby building with an unlocked door made for an easy place to hide, and only inside did he finally start breathing.

Goddammit. God fucking _dammit_. All he’d had to do was lock gazes with the man and suddenly he was back in Middle-Earth with the company around him and his Halfling right in front of him.

_“You loved him.”_

Apparently that hadn’t changed. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Gandalf had been right to warn him away from John. Not for John’s sake, but for Sebastian’s own piece of mind. If there was anything that was going to blow his cover with Moriarty, it was that little stunt. He’d have to turn that on its ear somehow.

Eventually he found the stairs in the building and made his way up to the top floor. It was easy to find the flashing lights around the warehouse from there. An ambulance quickly darted away, sirens wailing in the air, and Sebastian froze. Oh god, not John, please not John-

No, John was walking out of the building, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been hurt, then. Good.

Except that he was walking alongside Holmes, who was also uninjured. If there was ever a reason to fume, that was it. One wrong step and, Moriarty’s insistence or not, Sebastian would take him out. He couldn’t believe it had taken Gandalf’s pointing it out to realize who Sherlock had been. Smaug’s very bearing was in that tall, lean frame. His overconfidence, his calculating gaze, it was all there for the world to see. And he’d caught Bilbo in his snare.

John was talking animatedly with Sherlock, frowning all the while. Sherlock also seemed concerned about whatever it was. Sebastian focused as closely as he could on John’s lips, looking for a telltale word. It wasn’t until he caught was he was certain was ‘Moran’ that he knew what they were discussing: him. How Sebastian had saved John’s life, when not a minute before he’d been offering ways to psychologically torture him. Like he could have hurt him.

God but he was still short and small. Sebastian hadn’t had a problem lifting him off the hook. At least in this lifetime Sebastian had wound up taller, maybe even taller than Sherlock. Poor John, though, had still wound up with a slender frame and little less than average height. It made him a target, though anyone who thought Dr. John Watson was an easy target was an idiot. Sebastian’s legs already ached from the sharp, calculated kicks. Trussed up and hung like meat on a slab, and John had still defended himself to the utmost degree. Sebastian smiled.

They were walking away and down the street, Sherlock talking with his hands, John rubbing his wrists. It’d come too close this time. Far too close for Sebastian’s comfort. His inner Thorin hadn’t taken the sight of Bilbo captured and hurt well, either. Those two asses had been lucky he hadn’t had a blade on him.

He watched them go, making a decision then and there. Fuck Gandalf. Leaving Watson alone wasn’t going to happen, not when his life was so close to the firing line because he was with Sherlock. He needed someone to watch out for him, the way Thorin had watched out for Bilbo. Before he’d cast him out, that was.

He shook his head. “I promise you, little burglar,” Sebastian murmured, eyes still on the two figures walking away. “I swear to keep you safe from harm.”

_Even from me._

 

After that, it sort of became A Thing. Because John, Sebastian learned, was in trouble a lot more than the average person. That was the problem with being Sherlock’s companion: you got into the thick of it. Moriarty certainly didn’t help.

Even still, there were things that Moriarty wasn’t behind, like an art thief willing to kill to keep his prize. Sebastian had been watching through his rifle scope, and he hadn’t intended on getting involved, but when the son of a bitch had quietly made his way down the staircase to where John had been examining papers, well, Sebastian might have _accidentally_ pulled the trigger. It turned out that John made the same perplexed, completely bewildered face that Bilbo had. It was enough to make Sebastian grin.

Then there’d been the suicidal bomber case, and that had left Sebastian on pins and needles, because all he could think about was the last time there’d been a bomb involved, it had been wrapped around John’s chest. It wasn’t there now, John was _fine_ , but it still left goosebumps on his arm to think about. He’d been the red dot on John’s chest that could’ve blown him sky high. God he could’ve killed him and never known who he was. Who he’d been, what he’d meant to him.

And he hadn’t meant to get involved beyond his rifle, but this case sort of demanded it, since it wasn’t as readily solved with a bullet as the last case. So he’d had no real choice, really. In order to keep John safe.

John’s voice was puzzled when he picked up the phone. “Who is this?”

“Third floor, building to your left. He’s turning the bomb on now, if the lights are any indication.”

John whirled around, eyes darting everywhere. Sebastian was impressed at how John’s eyes went directly upward: he knew where to look, even if he’d never actually be able to find Sebastian. “Are you _stalking_ me?”

“You might want to hurry,” Sebastian encouraged. “Sherlock went the wrong way. Eventually, he’ll figure it out: he might’ve deduced the target, but he hasn’t figured out the right building. Third floor.” He bit back the _be careful_ that wanted to escape his lips and promptly hung up. John stared at his phone for only half a moment, indecision obviously tearing at him, before he headed for the left building. He had his gun out before he entered, though, and Sebastian kept his sights on every floor. He’d clear a safe path.

Turned out, he didn’t need to. John managed to stop the bomb, and of course it was Sherlock who came in with a final knock-out that saved John’s life. “I would’ve shot him,” Sebastian muttered, “if you hadn’t been in the bloody way.” Not that it mattered now. So long as John was fine, Sebastian didn’t care how it had happened.

…All right, it was annoying as all hell to have his thunder stolen, but Sebastian was going to shove his dwarf pride back down and accept the final outcome as a victory. He packed up and discarded his temporary phone into the nearest dumpster as he left.

The next one went much the same. This time, when he called, John answered with more annoyance than trepidation. “Are you seriously doing this?”

“Coming up behind you, but still a block out. Stay behind the short stairs to your right and you’ll have the upper hand.”

“You know, for a marksman, you’re doing a terrible job of actually shooting someone,” John said wryly, but he moved behind the stairs, and Sebastian could hear him checking his sidearm.

Sebastian chuckled, low and throaty. “I did shoot someone. You and Sherlock expressed displeasure at your suspect being shot down like a bird. Though you had enough evidence to pin it all to him anyway. I was saving you from a day of witness paperwork, that’s all.”

The henchman continued down the alley, still hunting for John. That didn’t stop John from replying with incredulity. “That was _you_?” he hissed. “Why on earth would you-“

“On your left, John,” he said sharply, and John went silent. The man came closer, searching around, and John slowly stepped out from his hiding place. At the last second, the man turned, and John raced forward to try and cover the distance remaining. “Dammit,” Sebastian cursed. John struggled, and was doing a fine job of holding his own, but when the bigger man nearly laid John out with a single punch, that was that. He fired a shot that clipped the side of the man’s knee, tearing his pants and leaving him shouting and hopping at the sudden sting. Half a second later John had him knocked out with the butt of his gun.

When John picked up the phone again, he looked up and nearly straight at where Sebastian was perched. “You missed,” he said.

Sebastian grinned. “I meant to. Like I said, you expressed displeasure the last time I tried to help that way.”

“Killing him, yes. Taking out his kneecaps, that’s a different story.”

“John Watson, I’m surprised at you,” Sebastian said, faking shock. “I never would’ve taken you to be such a character that I would approve of.”

John gave him the two fingered salute, and Sebastian chuckled. As he left and tossed the phone into a trash can, he thought back over what he’d said. _A character that I would approve of._ He’d never thought Bilbo would prove much merit, either, but he’d owed Gandalf, so he’d taken Bilbo on. He’d been a hobbit of the Shire, more a grocer than a burglar. Thorin had held nothing more than contempt for this small, simple being.

Little by little, he’d stolen Thorin’s affection. His loyalty, professed first after the goblin caves and last in his wisdom with the Arkenstone. His courage, shown in his willingness to face Azog in battle and his stand against a thunderous Thorin in Erebor. He’d proven his character, and in the end, his heart had perhaps been more than Thorin’s. He hadn’t been lost to the gold-lust. He’d even tried to save Thorin from it, and Thorin had nearly taken his life for it.

Sebastian let out a soft sigh. There was nothing he could do about the past. The only way he could possibly repay Bilbo was to help protect his reincarnation here in the 21st century. And he would do it with whatever means available to him.

A shadow fell in step beside him, and a quick side glance confirmed his initial guess. “Do you have nothing better to do than follow me, wizard?” he asked.

“Do you have nothing better to do than follow Watson?” Gandalf replied. Sebastian didn’t answer, merely pursing his lips. The wizard sighed, playing with the cap on his head, white hair short where it had once been long and gray. “I’ve warned you to stay away from him, and what do I find? You’re sharing phone conversations as if you were old friends.”

“We _are_ old friends,” Sebastian was quick to remind him. God but it was bloody weird to nearly look the wizard in the eye now. “He just…doesn’t know that. And frankly, his life would be a lot shorter if I wasn’t there watching his back.”

“That’s what Sherlock’s been doing.”

“Sherlock’s playing a game with Moriarty.” Sebastian shook his head. “But what he doesn’t know is that he’s playing Moriarty’s game. I don’t know what Moriarty’s final plan is, but it’s not a good one. I won’t leave Bilbo defenseless or worse, played as a pawn, on either of their game boards.”

Gandalf stared at him appraisingly. “Sherlock cares for John more than you want to think,” he said quietly after a moment. “But…I also understand your wanting to watch over John. It’s fairly ingrained into your very being, I should guess, at this point in time. You spent the last year of your Middle-Earthen life making certain no harm befell Bilbo, despite your swearing to me that you would not be held responsible for his safety or his life.”

“I misjudged his character,” Sebastian admitted. It was painful to admit, but he was willing to own up to it. “I misjudged him in a lot of ways that weren’t fair. And I fell in battle before I was able to really convey that to him. A letter only does so much.”

It took a moment to realize that Gandalf wasn’t walking with him anymore. Rather, the wizard was gazing at him with what looked suspiciously like approval. “I believe you misjudged yourself as much as you did Bilbo,” he said. “I sincerely hope you don’t misjudge yourself now.”

Sebastian felt his face warm. “You’re meddling again,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know how but you are.”

Gandalf merely huffed in amusement and walked away. “Not going to chide me for following John?” he called out.

“Stopping you from following John would be akin to having asked Fili to stop antagonizing his brother: it won’t do any good, and will probably only encourage the habit.” Still, when he turned from Sebastian, there was a grin on the older man’s face.

Sebastian watched him go, eyes narrowed. Somewhere in there, there was reverse psychology, which was just the same as meddling. The worst part was, he didn’t have a clue which way the wizard was angling towards. “You bastard,” he said without heat.

Goddamn bloody wizards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains HEAVY spoilers for the season 2 finale of Sherlock (BBC): The Reichenbach Fall. You have been warned.
> 
> Warning: ANGST. With a heavy topping of angst and a side of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the continued comments, bookmarks, and kudos! Y'all rock. I've been waiting to make this update when my shoulder stopped screaming at me (which it tends to do when I'm stupid and pop it out like I did), and when I'm not obsessed with the LEGO Lord of the Rings game (which I am, even Gollum is SO CUTE asdfjkl;).
> 
> Apparently, I have answered someone's prompt on a kink meme somewhere, which I didn't even know about, so, yeah, that worked out well. Good to know great minds think alike and want the same things. Glad I could answer the prompt for you!
> 
> Um, angst this chapter. ANGSTY MCANGST. And I'm not even a little sorry about it.

It went on like that for a while. Whenever he could, Sebastian would call John from a different line with a tip or a warning. John would usually reply with something sarcastic, and Sebastian would reply in kind before killing the call.

Eventually, though, the talks went on for a little longer. It felt so much like the chats he’d shared with Bilbo on the way to Erebor, small moments of peace as they journeyed on, that he’d actually paused on the line more than once, lost in the memory and feelings. John always caught his attention again, and Sebastian swore the doctor sounded _concerned_ when he called his name again and again. Slowly the talks became something more, almost friendly. Honestly, it was more than Sebastian could ever have hoped for with John. He’d never expected to ever be seen by John as anything more than Moran the sharpshooter. Now he was Sebastian with, how had John put it, “The man with eight thousand bloody cell phones.” It was nice.

Which was, of course, when everything went to hell.

 

It seemed like one minute, the world was praising Sherlock’s skills, and the next, Sherlock was a wanted man. Everything was spinning out of control, with Sebastian barely able to follow John’s movements.

“I want you to put your sniper skills to use.”

Kill order, from Moriarty. There was to be a sniper on every single person Sherlock held close. It wasn’t a long list. Greg Lestrade, Sherlock’s landlady. John. Obviously, Sebastian couldn’t be in multiple locations at once. Even before Moriarty had given him his assignment, Sebastian had put a stake in for watching John. “This one, when Sherlock loses, will be the one that hurts the most. This is the one you want done right, and you know there’s not a better shot than me,” Sebastian insisted, fingers going clammy around his phone.

There was silence down the line. Then Jim’s thin, light voice echoed through, wrapping Sebastian’s heart in ice. “That just proves you don’t know how the game’s supposed to go,” he said. “Watch Lestrade. When I give the order, FIRE.”

There was no calling him back. His mind was made up. Which meant there was a sniper somewhere with John’s head in his scope. The very thought made him sick to his stomach. Goddamn Moriarty and goddamn Sherlock and goddamn their game of wits. It was only going to get the people Sherlock loved killed.

It was only going to get John killed. And Sebastian would be damned before he saw anything happen to John.

There was no calling John this time. John’s line was obviously being tapped at this point, and he couldn’t risk it. Plus, there wasn’t anything he could really _tell_ John. ‘Duck’? ‘Someone’s going to shoot you’? No, he had to keep John physically safe, and that meant being there.

He didn’t even bother getting his rifle. He grabbed a small handgun and stuck it in his side holster, then buried it under his long jacket. His motorcycle couldn’t seem to go fast enough, because he knew exactly where John would be. Moriarty had this set up too well, and John would be racing to 221B Baker Street right now. It would only take one sniper to remove Mrs. Hudson and John in a single fell swoop. And Moriarty had given him Lestrade to cover.

Moriarty knew. Somehow, he knew about Sebastian keeping John safe. He’d done this deliberately, giving him the only person who wouldn’t have John in his sights.

Sebastian would just have to get there first.

He reached Baker Street just as a cab began making its way to 221B. He left the bike by the curb and started walking as fast as he could without looking suspicious. John looked frantic inside the cab, eyes racing over the building for any sign of Mrs. Hudson. Sebastian moved faster.

Just as the cab door opened and John all but flew out of it, Sebastian caught his arm and dragged him away, keeping John away from the street. “What-!” John stuttered, then stared when he caught sight of who had him. “What are you doing? Mrs. Hudson-“

“Is fine,” Sebastian said. “We didn’t get a kill order, so she’s untouched. Keep walking with me, we need to get you out of here _now_.”

“You know,” John said at last, though he was walking in step with Sebastian. “You know what’s going on. Of course you know what’s going on, what am I thinking? What’s Moriarty’s game?”

“To kill all of you and put it on Sherlock’s shoulders, would be my guess.” God only knew what was going through the psychopath’s mind.

John’s eyes got wider. “Oh god,” he said faintly. “I have to…I have to get to Sherlock.”

That was exactly what Sebastian did not want to hear. “Where is Sherlock?” he said at last, very reluctantly. “Do you know where?”

“The hospital, St. Bartholomew,” John let out in a rush. “I’ve got to, got to go-“

“We’ll take my bike,” Sebastian told him. “It’ll be fine.” Except his bike was well and truly behind him, and there was a gunman with his scope probably aimed right at Sebastian’s head. At least it wasn’t on John’s head.

The next thing he knew, John had ripped his arm out of Sebastian’s hand and was racing down the street like a madman. “Wait!” Sebastian yelled, taking a fast three steps forward. Too late: John had already managed to hail a cabbie and was ducking in so fast he almost worried for the doctor’s head.

Dammit. Sebastian didn’t bother waiting; he took off for his bike. He didn’t bother trying to catch up and follow John’s cab. He didn’t have to – he knew where he was going.

Even with his knowledge of the various streets and alleyways, he still wound up getting there well after John did. John was on the phone, anxious and trying not to show it. His eyes were locked skyward, and when Sebastian followed his gaze, his stomach dropped. Sherlock stood on the edge of the hospital’s roof, phone to his ear. Sebastian parked the bike in the alleyway he’d driven through and slowly started walking in John’s direction. As he got closer, the desperate words drifted through to him.

“Leave a note when?”

Sherlock said something, and the fear on John’s face went straight to horror. Still, John was pleading, begging, anything to bring Sherlock down from the ledge, “No, don’t,” in such a small voice that sent Sebastian straight back to the Hobbit who’d tried so damn hard to save his life. As much as Sebastian hated the bastard, what Sherlock’s actions were going to do to John almost made him beg the same. Bilbo had watched so many people die, and he didn’t deserve to have it happen again, and god, it was going to happen, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

And then, it happened.

Sherlock’s arms went wide and John started screaming and then Holmes was falling, falling to the pavement below. The crack when he hit made even Sebastian flinch, and the look on John’s face reminded him so much of when he’d cast Bilbo out that he had to look away. Horror, pain. Gutted to the very core.

Then John was off and moving, only to be knocked over by a bicyclist. People were beginning to gather around the body and even before Sebastian could get over to help, John was up and running again. “Fuck,” Sebastian muttered, taking off across the square.

When he got to the scene, John had fallen to his knees, reaching for Sherlock. “He’s my friend,” he kept saying over and over, hands desperately reaching for his pulse. Blood spread everywhere, and it was enough to make even Sebastian’s stomach turn. Sherlock’s eyes were partially open, already glassing over in death.

“Oh god no.”

The whisper drew Sebastian back to John, who looked like he was going into shock. Someone was coming with a stretcher, and Sebastian finally shook himself from his stupor. They were out in the open, and for whatever reason Sherlock had jumped, they weren’t in a safe place. The only comfort Sebastian had was that his phone was still silent in his pocket. God knew where Moriarty was, or the other snipers for that matter. “John,” he called softly. John didn’t move, planted on his knees beside his fallen friend. He wondered if this was how Bilbo had looked when he’d found out Thorin had fallen: pale and shaking, lips trembling, eyes glistening, the horror of the truth only beginning to dawn on him.

Fuck that. “C’mon,” he said, voice rough, as he grabbed John by the arm and pulled him away. John immediately resisted, his eyes still on Sherlock. The medical team with the stretcher began backing people away from the body, but still John pulled towards his fallen friend. “John,” Sebastian snapped under his breath, then began simply walking away as if another bystander, hauling John with him. John fought him for half a moment, then seemed to collapse all at once. Sebastian twisted to catch him when his legs went out from underneath him. His skin felt clammy to the touch, and fuck, Sebastian couldn’t do anything for him except worry. Nothing to be done for shock right here and now. Not until he got John someplace safe. “Walk with me,” he said instead. “John, I need you to walk.”

After a few stumbling steps, John finally got enough strength into his legs to keep himself upright. He didn’t protest the hands keeping him up, and Sebastian didn’t dare let go. Voices from the scene behind them were still too loud, too near, and Sebastian cursed before turning down the next street. He’d deal with the bike later.

“Oh god,” John whispered, and there went his legs again. Sebastian had really hoped he could on until they reached somewhere safer, but he didn’t hesitate to help John lean against a brick wall, one hand on his shoulder to keep him balanced. “He…I don’t…”

“Breathe,” Sebastian said quietly. “You need to breathe,” and he managed to keep the affectionate, _little burglar_ , to himself. Barely. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking as Thorin who needed his Halfling. He needed to be Sebastian Moran who could hold another man up.

John met his eyes for the first time and they were shining, emotions running wild. “He’s not a fake,” he said, pulling in a ragged breath. Sebastian only nodded, not having a clue as to what John was talking about. “He didn’t have to _jump_ -“

He cut himself off, as if terrified at what he’d said. Sebastian still didn’t have the faintest ideas to why Sherlock had jumped, but he was putting together the pieces, and none of them were good. Staring at John now, trembling beneath his hand, he wondered who’d really cracked more from the fall, Sherlock or John. At least Sherlock had only been broken once.

“We need to get out of here,” Sebastian began, but John suddenly shoved away from the wall and began unsteadily heading down the street, away from the hospital. Sebastian quickly followed. “I’ve got my bike, but it’s the other way.”

John wasn’t even paying him the slightest bit of attention. “Should’ve, should’ve said something else, god, he didn’t have to-“ He choked on something that sounded too much like a sob but kept going. “Why can’t I ever say the right thing?”

“We need to leave,” Sebastian repeated. “Where are we going? John!” The other man was walking aimlessly, and it wasn’t helping settle the concern in his gut. Even Bilbo had seemed more confident than the lost man before him. He reached out to catch John’s arm, but John neatly sidestepped him.

“I can’t ever say the right bloody thing,” John kept going. “Can’t ever save them. Everything I do and it’s never enough, and their goddamn stubbornness and my fault, god if I hadn’t picked up that fucking stone or if I’d just, I’d just said something different, maybe…”

Sebastian just sort of, stopped, right there, and it felt like the whole world had stopped with him. “What did you just say?” he said.

John hadn’t even heard, just kept going on, voice becoming more wretched as he spoke, shaky little inhales, and Sebastian darted forward to grab his arm. John tried to shake him off, but Sebastian only tightened his grip. “What. Stone,” he said lowly.

The doctor froze in his grasp, and he glanced up briefly to meet Sebastian’s gaze. Those eyes, there was a world of devastation and pain in them, but there was recognition in them, too. The last time Sebastian had seen this look, it had been right after he’d ordered the hobbit thrown out of his kingdom.

Son of a bitch.

“You remember,” he breathed. John just swallowed hard. “You remember me,” Sebastian continued, stepping closer. “You, god. Bilbo-“

John ripped his arm away from Sebastian so hard he nearly fell over. Sebastian reached for him to steady him, but John ducked away. “Leave me, leave me _alone_ ,” John said, aiming for angry and coming out pleading. Sebastian forced himself to not reach for John again, an ache building in his chest.

“Bilbo-“

“Don’t _call me that_ ,” John snapped. “I am not that…that incompetent fuck-wit anymore. I am Dr. John Watson, and I have enough mistakes attributed to my own name without adding past transgressions to it.” He clutched at his arm where Sebastian had caught him as if it had burned him. “You’re not Thorin anymore, why should I have to be Bilbo?” he said, and his voice was almost impossibly small.

There wasn’t a single thing there that Sebastian understood. His mind was whirling at a million miles an hour, switching rapidly between, _He’s Bilbo, god he remembers he remembers me he's remembered for awhile_ , to _The hell is he talking about, mistakes?_ He didn’t even have the first clue how to respond or how to make sense of what John was saying.

In the end, he shoved it all aside and went with option C. “All right, John,” he said, deliberately using but not stressing the name. “We need to get out of here. I’ve got a bike, but it’s the other way-“

When Sebastian gestured behind him, John’s eyes widened, and the realization came much later than he would’ve liked. Of course John wanted to go absolutely nowhere near Bart’s anytime soon. Walking in a circle just to get back to the bike only left them outside that much longer, and the amount of time they’d been out in the open suddenly dawned on him. Shit. “Which is why we’re going to grab a cab up ahead,” he finished, and the raw relief on John’s face physically hurt to look at. He didn’t reach for John again as they walked, but John was letting him walk beside him, so Sebastian took it. He’d get John somewhere safe, then they’d deal with the explosion that had been this afternoon.

Though what he was supposed to do about it, he didn’t have the foggiest fucking clue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say that there wasn't going to be angst this chapter. But I'd be lying. If you like your angst sandwich extra angsty, well, then this is the chapter for you. Ta-da!
> 
> Continued thanks for the comments and the kudos. I'm starting to feel highly spoiled.

Thorin looked completely at a loss, for once in his goddamn life.

Sebastian, Sebastian, _Sebastian_ , John pounded through his head. He wasn’t Bilbo anymore, wasn’t that just what he’d told the man, what, an hour before? If that? That meant it wasn’t Thorin standing in front of him, and thank god for that, because Bilbo Baggins had more apologies owed to the dwarf king than anyone could ever owe anyone.

But just watching him pace with that look in his eyes, sideways glances being thrown John’s way when he thought he wasn’t being watched… it _was_ Thorin, through and through, and it hurt. God it _hurt_. His Thorin-

John stopped himself. The man before him wasn’t ‘his’ Thorin. Not anymore. If he’d ever been. Maybe, before the accursed Arkenstone, before the world had gone to hell, before he’d left Thorin to die on the battlefield. Why was he the one who was always left behind while others died?

_“That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

He shuddered straight down to his toes. God. He saw Thorin, _Sebastian_ , pause in his pacing to glance at him, but John only curled over in his chair more, and eventually the sharpshooter went back to walking a groove into the floor. John almost wanted to shout at him to do it elsewhere, but the sound provided background noise even while it grated slightly on his nerves. Besides, there wasn’t really much of anywhere he could go.

The house was small, lean and tall, cozy between two other buildings on the corner of some not very busy streets. The main floor was empty, save for some very Spartan furniture and what looked like a nice bed shoved into the back corner, surrounded by floor to ceiling curtains obviously meant for privacy. He hadn’t a clue what the other floors looked like. The front windows had thicker than usual curtains, perfect to curtail any sort of interest in the place. It looked like a normal, average building, and it was very obviously a safe house.

The pacing leaned towards too aggravating, and he thought about going up to the second floor, somewhere that Sebastian wasn’t. Anywhere else those deep blue eyes wouldn’t follow him or haunt him any further than they already did. Except now, now he had another pair of blue eyes to haunt his sleep, a tear-stained face and a bitter, broken voice that had led to one of the most brilliant minds John had ever met ending abruptly on the ground. It had been the end of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. The end of Sherlock, John’s best friend.

The sob burst out without his approval, and he slapped a hand over his mouth even as Sebastian stopped pacing. John squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his legs up further to him. Guess he was still small enough to curl up on a chair, legs, body, and all. Sherlock’s leather seat, he could curl up on that, too, or sit on the arm while listening to Sherlock explain in a dizzying fashion how the crime had been committed, and oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_.

He’d died for John. John knew it deep in his gut. Died for them all, left his ‘note’ and insisted John tell everyone that the papers were right, he was a fraud. Clearing John’s name, saving them from whatever Moriarty had planned. And all it had cost him was his life.

“John?”

The gentle, deep voice reminded him of a different age, where escaping large spiders and pale orcs had been all he’d needed to do. Where he’d had a company around him, laughing with him, accepting him, counting him among their own. Of a king who’d held him, had talked to him late at night with a soft smile and kind words until that goddamn treasure had lit his eyes with something Bilbo couldn’t pull him from. And he couldn’t talk about gold, because Bilbo had had his own gold sickness, tucked away in his pocket, and the damage he’d caused with it in the end, god, _Frodo_ -

A hand, just as strong as he remembered, settled hesitantly on his shoulder, and he fought not to shudder again. “John,” he heard again, like it was an answer in and of itself. And suddenly, it was just too much. More than the sounds, this kindness was more than he could take.

Sebastian nearly stumbled back in surprise when John suddenly flung himself up and out of the chair. “John-“

“God, I almost liked it better when you called me Bilbo,” John said with a harsh laugh. “Not that the name really matters, does it? Both of us fuck-ups. Both of us failures.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, it was like looking straight at Thorin. “Take care how you address John Watson and Bilbo Baggins, because the both of them are men I hold in high esteem,” he said, voice rough and low.

“Then you’re an idiot,” John snapped, turning away. He wrapped his arms around himself miserably, unconsciously beginning to pace in much the same way Sebastian had. The other man stayed silent, though John could almost hear the thoughts racing through Sebastian’s head.

John spun himself around and almost straight into Sebastian’s face. “Have you ever read anything that Tolkien wrote?” he asked, pointing a finger at the other man. “J.R.R. Tolkien. Have you?”

Sebastian paused. “I have,” he said at last, and any hope John had sank straight to the floor. Fuck. Fuck it all…

“I don’t understand what that has to do about anything. Unless you’re talking about _The Hobbit_.”

“No, the series in general,” John said, and he couldn’t believe he was saying anything about this at all. “I can’t…I’m not talking about the utter disaster that was the events of _The Hobbit_. I can barely talk about the _Lord of the Rings_ and I was hardly in it!” No, but the lives he’d destroyed, the hopelessness he’d put upon his dearest nephew, and someone just needed to shoot him now.

If anything, Sebastian looked more baffled than before. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “John, I don’t-“

“The ring!” John shouted, and suddenly it burst out of him like a flood. “That…that goddamn ring! Sauron’s ring, the Ring of Power, the ring I brought back from Gollum’s cave! The perfect little burglar who…who all but _damned_ Middle-Earth with it! You thought I’d only stolen the Arkenstone and hadn’t that been bad enough, but if you’d lived to see it, you would’ve seen the utter destruction my actions wreaked across the entire map!” He stopped when he couldn’t breathe any more, voice high and choked.

Sebastian could only stare at him. John felt a laugh burst out of him, and it was high-pitched and awful. “And I thought _you_ had the gold sickness. God, I had the nerve to take what you held most precious and then I gave it to your enemies. No wonder you hate me.” Though that didn’t really explain why the hell Sebastian had been his almost friend, had saved his life again and again, the past few months. “Why?” he asked, just as Sebastian started to speak.

“Why what?” Sebastian answered, almost helplessly.

“Why the calls, the getting involved in the cases, the saving me, why? Why, Thorin? Why the fuck would you after…after all of it?”

Blue eyes showed obvious surprise, whether at his words or the slip of the dwarf name. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, completely bewildered.

What the hell was he getting at? “You’re not making a lick of sense,” John said.

“Neither are you!” Sebastian said, frustration finally bleeding through. “Why the fuck would I hate you?”

“I gave away the Arkenstone! I betrayed you!” _I’m sorry, I was only trying to save you, I’m sorry._

Sebastian pursed his lips, nostrils flaring. “I told you, the Arkenstone doesn’t _matter_. Is that what this is about?”

“It doesn't...is that what… are you even _listening_ to yourself?” John sputtered. His fingers flew to his scalp: better to wrench his hair than Sebastian’s neck. Since when had they discussed the Arkenstone, especially the Arkenstone not being important? Because that conversation, that Bilbo would've remembered. “That Arkenstone was your everything! And I just…” It hurt to say it, to admit it, but he wasn’t Bilbo, and the excuses of a lifetime ago weren’t going to cut it. “I just _gave it away_. I knew what it would do to you and I did it anyway, because I wanted you safe from whatever the hell the gold had done to you!” Oh, back to the excuses. So he wasn’t quite past that stage yet, apparently.

“It doesn’t mat-“

“You cast me out! You would’ve probably killed me if your nephews hadn’t held you back! I’m just surprised they didn’t want to _help_ you cut me down where I stood!” And there was the tightening in his chest as he thought about Fili and Kili, remembered their laughter and their jokes. Remembered how Gandalf had told him they’d been laid to rest together after the battle, the fight maybe Bilbo could’ve saved them from if he’d just done something different, if he hadn’t taken the Arkenstone, if he’d just talked to Thorin or said something besides what he had, if he, if he…

It took a minute to realize that the only sound in the space was his heavy breathing. John looked up at Sebastian, confused at the way the other man had gone white as a ghost. Sebastian began to speak, then stopped, as if unable to pull in enough air. It took another try for him to actually get the words out. “Was my letter so ill received?” he managed. “Did it mean so little to you, that you would honestly believe that of me?”

John blinked. “Letter?” he asked. He frowned, hands falling to his side. “What…what letter?”

Sebastian took a step forward, and the name Sebastian was wrong here, now, because this was Thorin before him, in movement and words, though he’d never heard Thorin this desperate before. “The letter I dictated in my last moments. I…you must have received it.”

There’d been a letter? “No, I, no, I never got a letter.” He almost reached out to put a calming hand on Thorin’s shoulder, and almost had to physically wrench himself back. He wasn’t Bilbo, this wasn’t Thorin, they weren’t in Middle-Earth. But god if he didn’t feel like a hobbit before his dwarf lord again, wanting to offer solace to the king.

Because he had heard Thorin this desperate before: the night before Bilbo had wandered into the Lonely Mountain to face off against Smaug. Thorin had been more afraid for Bilbo than _Bilbo_ had been, the king nearly lost in how frightened he’d been for the Halfling. “You sent a letter? To me?” John asked.

“I…I sent you everything I wanted to say in person.” The pain on Thorin’s face (Sebastian, Sebastian) was almost too much for him to bear. “How much I wanted to reconcile with you, the apologies I owed to you, the hurt and the wrongs I had done to you that I wanted forgiveness for. How that stone didn't matter, how it never should have. I thought…given how my death had been written in _The Hobbit_ …”

How Bilbo had told the story. “No, I didn’t, I mean, I never received your letter.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and he was Bilbo again, small and hurt and wishing for something he knew he’d never get. For something he didn’t deserve, after he’d betrayed the person he’d held most dear. “I told Tolkien the story, _your_ story. I was exact in everything-“ well, nearly everything, save for the quiet moments he’d held too close to let go, “-but…but I made it up. Your final farewell. The way I wished I could’ve said goodbye.” He bowed his head, wringing his hands. “I felt absolutely wretched telling Tolkien what I did, as if that was the way it had gone. Because I never would’ve dreamed that you, that you would’ve wanted…”

Thorin had died loathing him. It was a simple truth he’d had to live with for several lifetimes, now. If Bilbo had been there to say goodbye in the dwarf king’s final moments, he would’ve been pushed away with Thorin’s last strength. So he’d made up a bittersweet parting and hated himself for it, even while he’d secretly longed for it to be true.

But now, now to know that Thorin had wanted the same, that he’d spent his last moments dictating a letter to Bilbo to ask for reconciliation? It was almost more than Bilbo could stand.

“Bilbo.”

Two fingers gently caught under his chin and pulled his gaze up. Thorin no longer looked desperate but hopeful. His touch was tender, somehow _forgiving_ which Bilbo couldn’t possibly imagine because after everything he’d done, it was the Arkenstone theft and the betraying of Thorin that had always sat the heaviest in his heart. But to see Thorin now, to feel his fingers brushing against Bilbo’s skin, to know that he wasn’t about to be cast out or cursed, it was more than he could’ve imagined in all his lifetimes. This was so much more than he deserved-

And just like that, he was John Watson again, no longer the hobbit who had failed everyone in every possible regard. He backed away, startling Thorin. “Bilbo-“

“I wish the letter had been delivered, for your sake and mine,” John said. “But that doesn’t change anything.” _Liar_ , his heart screamed at him. The idea of the letter wrapped tightly around his mind, removing the sting of old memories, making them ache instead. “I still failed you. I failed Middle-Earth. I failed…”

Sherlock’s bright eyes suddenly came, unbidden, to the front of his thoughts, and suddenly he couldn’t be here. “I can’t,” he said, and it was Sebastian’s voice that called for him even while he raced for the door.

“John! Wait!”

He tore out of the safe house, not caring if there were fifty snipers ready to shoot the first thing that came out of the door. He couldn’t be there with Sebastian and Thorin and the ghosts of the past and his failures, his betrayals that were almost too much to speak of. He ran down the street, ignoring everything except the pounding of his feet on the pavement.

He never noticed the pained blue eyes that followed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo/John is a guilt-ridden angst-muffin, Sebastian/Thorin worries and tries to make it better, and Gandalf meddles some more, but maybe this time to greater effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to the meat of it now. And by meat, I mean angst. 
> 
> Y'all rock my mismatched socks.
> 
> Edit: According to my lovely Dani who so gently (see: demanded, insisted, pushed at any given chance) pushed for this fic, there should be a tissue warning on this chapter. So.
> 
> TISSUE WARNING.

It was late when John came stumbling back to the safe house, miserable and tired. There was a gentle glow of light from the windows, which meant Sebastian had pulled back one of the curtains, to let John know he was still there.

He settled down on the stairs to the building instead. The cold had sunk into his bones, leaving him numb. He’d run and run until his cheeks had burned from the wind and the tears that had leaked from his eyes had long dried. He hadn’t stopped until he’d found himself on Baker Street. There’d been an official looking car in front of 221B – Lestrade’s, more than likely – and he’d stared at it for several long minutes before he’d slowly turned around to go back. Facing Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson was more than he could handle at the moment.

He was comfortably numb, even while his brain wouldn’t shut off. He’d ignored it for years, the events of Middle-Earth. He’d pushed them back while he’d helped Sherlock, saving lives like it made up for the horrors he’d inflicted on the men, elves, and dwarves of an age ago. On the hobbits, specifically four young hobbit lads who hadn’t deserved the atrocities they’d seen. He put a hand up to his face, covering his eyes.

Somewhere along their voyage to the last boats, Bilbo had found his book he’d given to Frodo. Old age had nearly robbed him of his sight, but not enough so that he couldn’t read what Frodo had added, of the ‘adventure’ his nephew had had. He’d let Frodo give the book to Sam, and the weariness on his nephew’s shoulders had suddenly meant so much more, knowing what Frodo had had to do because of Bilbo. Because of the ring Bilbo had so foolishly brought back with him from his doomed journey.

The destruction he’d caused. God, the cities that had burned, all because of him. Men and women and children, _children_ , had perished because of his actions. That small, tiny ring that he’d selfishly used for so many years had claimed the lives of kings and noblemen. It had nearly claimed Frodo’s life. His bright-eyed nephew had come back haunted, desolate, never to truly smile again. He’d come back permanently injured, an ache in his shoulder and a finger forever gone. All because of Bilbo.

He hadn’t realized his eyes were burning until footsteps heralded someone approaching. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking up to try and see the figure in the dark. It could’ve been an assassin, for all he knew, a sharpshooter who had no inclination to spare his life the way Sebastian Moran had. He didn’t really care. Let him get shot: it was the least he owed the world. He’d failed Thorin, he’d failed Frodo, and now, he’d failed Sherlock. He didn’t move as the figure came into the light.

“Bilbo Baggins,” a throaty voice said, even as John felt his mouth fall open. “I had hoped to find you in better spirits.”

It was hard to breathe, but he managed to pull in a choked breath. “Gandalf,” he whispered, and the end of the wizard’s name came out half strangled.

Gandalf’s eyes crinkled in despair, but it was a familiar face, one he never thought he’d see again. “Oh Bilbo,” he said softly, and his gentleness was more than John could bear. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he fought not to sob.

A hand rested on his shoulder, a silent support, and John reached blindly for his friend. His fingers found cloth, and the wizard tugged him forward until John’s face was buried in his knees, his hands clenched in the linens of his trousers. He began to weep, harsh sobs wrenched from his chest that cut off the ability to do anything except feel. 

“My dear Bilbo,” Gandalf murmured, sounding sadder than he’d ever heard the wizard sound before. Gandalf rested his other hand on the back of John’s head, a presence of comfort against the heartsickness, fingers lightly brushing where ears had once been pointed. Once, long ago, Gandalf had comforted him much like this, in Bag End, when he’d told Bilbo about Thorin’s fate. And Bilbo had cried and wept and wished it could all be undone. No matter how much Gandalf had whispered words of comfort to him, he couldn’t be consoled.

Now, though. For some reason, Gandalf’s quiet presence was creeping into the depths of John’s very soul. It was pushing past the numbness that had pervaded his mind and heart and body, healing something he’d thought forever broken. Maybe it was because he’d finally been willing to accept the wizard’s comfort.

Or maybe it was because the door had opened behind them, and as John turned swollen eyes behind him, he saw Thorin standing there, framed in the light from inside. Except this wasn’t Thorin, King Under the Mountain. This wasn’t Thorin, lord of the dwarves.

This was Sebastian, with only a glimmer of Thorin in his gaze. This was a man who looked just as concerned as Gandalf did.

“Come, let’s go inside,” Gandalf said quietly, pulling John to his feet. John pushed back the last of his tears, even as his eyes burned with fresh pain.

 

“I’d always wondered how it was that you knew the events of the Fellowship.”

The kettle was nearly finished boiling. If there was anything they could use, it would be tea, though Sebastian knew well enough that Gandalf would’ve preferred some crazy coffee concoction. If there was one thing that Sebastian appreciated more now than in his previous lifetime, however, it was tea. Though he had to admit, he did have a flask of brandy tucked away in his jacket.

John didn’t even move under Gandalf’s soft gaze. The man looked drained, nowhere close to the crazed individual who’d stolen the air from Sebastian’s lungs earlier in the day. John kept staring at the floor, as if his head was too heavy to lift. A slight tremble had taken up residence in his small frame, and whether it was a chill or his tumultuous feelings, Sebastian didn’t know, but tea would help both. Tea was always a good answer.

Though he wasn’t certain the warm, calming beverage would help _him_ at all. When he’d heard John sobbing on the steps, he’d all but raced to throw the door open. Seeing Gandalf had quelled some of his fears, but the look on John’s face of misery and heartache had nearly been more than he could’ve handled. Thankfully Gandalf had taken charge, though he’d subtly handed John over to Sebastian’s care as soon as they’d gotten inside. John had let Sebastian move him around and tug off his jacket, had even let him push the doctor into a chair. He hadn’t moved since.

John let out a long, deep sigh. “Frodo wrote of it, in the book I’d given him of my adventures. He added on to my writings. I picked it up by chance and got a firsthand look at the damage I’d truly wreaked, before he gave the book to Sam.”

Sebastian began to speak but Gandalf cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. John didn’t notice, gaze still downcast. “What Frodo wrote would’ve been of his own adventure, Bilbo.” John made no move to correct the wizard, and Sebastian’s worry only furthered.

Gandalf gave him a look before he continued. “There were far too many details of Peregrin Took, of Gimli son of Gloin, and the adventures of countless others that Frodo would not have known about. How did you know about these to tell Tolkien?”

The kettle finally began whistling. Sebastian all but jumped up out of his seat, eager to have something else to do besides listen to the conversation. He didn’t feel like Thorin, dwarf lord and king. He didn’t even feel like Sebastian Moran, sharpshooter with nerves of steel. He felt like someone else, anxious and wanting Gandalf to leave John alone. He pulled the kettle off the small stove and began pouring tea. He was so engrossed in his work that he almost missed John’s response.

“I didn’t.”

Sebastian turned at the small voice, even as Gandalf sat up straighter. “You didn’t,” the wizard said, eyes widening.

“No, I didn’t.” John began fiddling with a stray thread on his pants, and it was like he was back in Middle-Earth, and Bilbo was right in front of him, nervous and lost amongst their company of dwarves. Uncertain as to whether he belonged, or if he was even wanted there. “Tolkien…Tolkien had heard the story from someone else. I don’t know whether it was Frodo or not. But he had heard it, all the same. The story of _The Hobbit_ …that was mine. The _Lord of the Rings_ , however, was not.” He began as if to speak again, then stopped, hunching over further in his chair.

Gandalf drew breath to speak again, and Sebastian quickly cut him off. “Earl Grey, Gandalf?” he asked. The look he got was almost a reprimand, but he didn’t give a shit. _Leave him alone for half a goddamn second, you meddling wizard._

To his surprise, Gandalf didn’t push the issue. “Yes, thank you.” He was silent as Sebastian brought the tea over, only making a small sound of approval as he took his drink. Sebastian stood by John’s side, waiting for the man to even acknowledge his presence, but John kept staring at the floor. After a long moment, Sebastian finally caught the smaller man’s hand and brought it up to the handle of the cup. John blinked and raised his head, seeming startled at finding Sebastian there. It took another moment to focus on the cup of tea, but he did finally take it, bringing it down to rest in his lap.

Sebastian didn’t move away from John, opting to lean against the wall near the other man. He ignored Gandalf’s all too knowing gaze. Bilbo Baggins sat before him, falling apart, and John Watson had had his own tragedy to deal with today. No, Sebastian wasn’t going anywhere.

A tentative sip of tea seemed to bring John a little more back into the land of the living. “I’m not certain who did it, exactly. Who would’ve had the knowledge to do it. I never did find out. But Tolkien’s account matched up with Frodo’s story, so I assumed it was…an accurate portrayal.” His fingers tightened on the cup. “It was devastating, Gandalf, you don’t know…when I read that, read what that damned ring had done to more than just Frodo, I-“

“Bilbo Baggins, you will cease that nonsense talk right now,” Gandalf said sternly. “You had no idea about the ring.”

“But if I’d told you sooner,” John insisted. “If I’d just, just told you, said something, I could’ve saved so many lives. The Rohan, scorched, Gondor, decimated, the Shire nearly…” He swallowed hard and looked away.

“The Ring of Power was always going to spread darkness,” Gandalf said, a bit more calmly than before. “And in the end, Frodo used his Baggins strength to destroy it once and for all. I imagine he took much strength from you.”

John snorted loudly and put his cup aside. “If he got anything from me, it wasn’t ‘strength’. Maybe how to say the wrong bloody thing.”

He kept saying that. _If I’d just said something different._ “I’d have to disagree with you,” Sebastian said, inserting himself into the conversation at last.

“Good for you,” John snapped, and Gandalf rose to his full height.

“Bilbo Baggins-“

“It’s _John Watson_ ,” John shouted, but his eyes were pained, not angry. “I don’t want to be Bilbo Baggins anymore! He, he screwed it all up, can’t you see that? If I’d said something about the ring, maybe, maybe things could’ve been different.”

“Do you really think saying anything different in any situation, any, would’ve made a difference?” Sebastian asked incredulously. “When you spoke to me about the Arkenstone, I was so damned lost I wouldn’t have heard you if you’d shouted that my nephews were dead at my feet.”

John gaped, trying to find an answer. “But I could’ve said something-“

“No, you couldn’t have,” Gandalf said. John turned to him, bewildered. “Things happened the way they did for a reason, Bilbo. If you hadn’t kept the ring for so long, Aragorn never would’ve ascended to the throne and brought about an age of peace to Middle-Earth. Sauron and his forces would never have been destroyed. The elves and dwarves would never have found a reconciling between them. That ring brought about good things, too. Things that had to come to pass. I am merely grateful that the ring didn’t affect you any more than it did, and not until many years later.

“And that, my dear hobbit, is entirely my fault. I suspected, very early on, that you had a ring with great power, yet never spoke to you of it. That was my wrongdoing. If anyone should have ‘said’ something differently, it should’ve been me.”

Sebastian didn’t realize he was walking to John until he was there, and it was easy then to rest a hand on the man’s shoulder. John turned his face up, moisture shimmering in his eyes. “I also should’ve said something different. What I said to you about the Arkenstone was more than wrong, it was unforgiveable. And I died regretting it.”

John looked stricken. “No, Thorin-“

“You did the right thing,” Sebastian said quietly. He offered a small smile when John still looked ill. “You didn’t make the mistake, Bilbo. I did. I threatened and cast out someone I…valued,” he finished. He didn’t dare look at Gandalf: one smug look from him was enough for a lifetime. And admitting to John – more importantly, to Bilbo – that he’d more than valued him, well, it wasn’t happening while the wizard was in the room.

Gandalf actually seemed to take a hint for once. He slowly stood, only catching John’s attention when he spoke. “It is late, and I should be on my way.”

“To where?” John asked. “Will you be back?”

Gandalf nodded. “Tomorrow, I will stop in. I have a few more things I should be doing right now, but you were my most pressing and, I will admit, my most indulgent meeting this night.” He smiled broadly at John, and Sebastian remembered that he’d been friends with Bilbo for a good many years. To know that an old friend wasn’t lost, well, Sebastian couldn’t deny him that. Especially when John returned his enthusiasm with a weary smile.

“It is good to see you at long last, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said. He retrieved his cane from near the door and, pulling out a hat from seemingly nowhere, he was gone.

John was the first to speak. “Was he…wearing a _fedora_?”

“A brightly checkered fedora at that,” Sebastian agreed. How in the hell hadn’t he noticed that earlier? Now it was blazingly obvious. The wizard hat had suited him better. Though with his short haircut, perhaps the wizard hat didn’t work quite as well.

Something tensed beneath his fingertips, and he realized he was still holding on to John’s shoulder. Before he could pull his hand away, John turned to look at him, and fuck, that was the last thing he needed. John’s eyes were bright, but not nearly as empty as they’d been early. “You mean that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Sebastian didn’t ask for clarification.

“Yeah,” Sebastian said. “I do. Meant it there on the battlefield, and I mean it now. You didn’t deserve what I said.”

“I took the Arkenstone,” John said softly. “More than that, I…I betrayed your trust. I never forgave myself for that. What-ifs plagued me every single day. If I’d just said this, if I hadn’t given it away, if I’d just done something, _anything_ different.”

“If you hadn’t given the Arkenstone away, I imagine the casualties would’ve been more than they already were.” It was bad enough that he’d gotten his nephews slaughtered. Murdered. He swallowed against the knot in his throat. Their cheerful faces drenched with blood; it had been the last vision of them, and the one he’d keep forever.

He couldn’t undo everything, but he could undo how he’d left things with Bilbo. The last time he’d seen the hobbit, Bilbo had had tears in his eyes, voice getting smaller and smaller as he’d tried to reason against the gold sickness. He’d tried to save Thorin from himself, and had been cast out, cursed, raged at and loathed. There was nothing Sebastian could do, he thought, to make up for what his past self had done.

But John was right before him, still letting Sebastian hold him, and maybe…maybe he could try. “You don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe Middle-Earth an apology.”

“The ring-“

“And if you hadn’t found it, taken it, used it? It would’ve stayed there in the mountains, maybe one day found by a goblin and wielded for evil. Your finding it was what led it to being destroyed.” The look in the other man’s eyes made him try again. “Don’t think about the lives lost. Think about how many of those lives were spared _because of you_. Don’t look at the casualties, Bilbo. Look at the ones who lived.”

John didn’t offer a rebuttal. Sebastian began to pull his hand away, only to stop when John inched his shoulder higher to keep the contact. He looked down at his hand, to John, then fought not to grip the other man’s shoulder. Where the hell was his Durin courage when he needed it? _You were the leader of an army more than once, you battled Azog the Defiler and won, you slaughtered goblins and orcs, you can buck up and tell him-_

“Sebastian?”

Sebastian pulled himself from his thoughts. John was frowning, a slight thing that marred his forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Now or never. “I need to tell you something.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which words are spoken and maybe, just maybe, the past can be washed clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you crazy kids, here's the end. You guys have been nothing short of FANTASTIC. Have a blanket THANK YOU for everything, the kudos, the comments, the bookmarks, all of it.
> 
> Please see after the end for my other notes, for I have something I want to tell you. Don't skip to them, you'll spoil the ending.
> 
> And there's a video! Someone made a video for my fic ASDFJKL; View it in its awesomeness here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZSxWCtzmkw

“I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve put into my letter but didn’t. About you, what I didn’t say the day I cast you out.”

And just like that, John’s face went blank. Shit. “You can tell me anything,” John said, but the tension under Sebastian’s hand said he didn’t expect it to be good.

“It’s…” And goddammit there went what courage he’d pulled up.

John took it as a bad sign and swiftly stood. “More tea?” he asked, and Sebastian followed after him.

“John, just…Bilbo _wait_.”

He didn’t know what name mattered more, but either way the man stopped. Sebastian waited until John turned around, then took a deep breath and let it all out in almost a rush. “You said you’d taken what I held most precious and given it to my enemies.”

John swallowed. “I did,” he said, his voice barely audible. “That’s right.”

“It’s not,” Sebastian said, and still repentance lingered in John’s eyes. “You didn’t take the most precious thing from me. I lost it, all on my own.” He crossed the distance between them, reaching carefully for John as if he were a frightened animal. John looked half ready to bolt, but remained where he was, as if out of sheer will. Sebastian cupped John’s face, and he watched wariness disappear into bewilderment.

It still took a few deep breaths before he had enough air to voice what he should’ve voiced a lifetime ago. “You, Bilbo. You’re what I held most precious above everything.”

He could feel a faint tremble beginning under his hands, as if John was desperate to move and barely keeping himself back. “’Held’?” he repeated. “What about…now?”

Well…what about now, after all? He’d been a king, was now a sharpshooter, and here before him was a doctor with the shadow of a hobbit’s life. He’d sought out Bilbo’s company more and more often on the journey, seeking solace and finding it in a gentle smile, down to earth attitude, and curls that caught the light. Bilbo had been the truest of Thorin’s friends, in the end. He’d been the most precious thing Thorin had ever held in all of Middle-Earth. And if Thorin had asked, he was fairly certain that he could’ve called the hobbit his own.

That was then. This was now. Staring at John now, he could’ve sworn he saw pointed ears and a glimpse of curls. Perhaps what he’d thought was lost in Middle-Earth had followed him here to the 21st century, to England.

“I swear to god, if you don’t do something, I’m liable to do it and we might not be thinking the same thing but I’ll do it anyway-“

Sebastian pulled him in and cut off the babbling with his lips. There was a brief moment of startled hesitation before warm lips moved against his. Gentle at first, then more aggressively they caught Sebastian, nipping and pulling and god, so good. The assault was dizzying, whether from the lack of air or the intensity of the kisses, Sebastian didn’t know and he sure as hell didn’t care. His lips fell open, and John moaned like he’d been waiting for permission before renewing the assault. A wet glide of a tongue ran across Sebastian’s lower lip, then slid inside, seeking his tongue. It was warm, it was wet and slippery and it was more than hot, it was damn near _dirty_. When John finally pulled away, gasping for air, Sebastian’s lips continued to tingle.

The world came back into focus tiny parts at a time. Hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers wrapped within his shirt. The window curtain was still pulled to the side – he needed to close that, he really did. But his focus was mostly on John.

John, whose face was flushed, breath still coming in tiny pants. His lips were spit-shined and looked as swollen as Sebastian’s felt. His eyes were no longer hesitant and empty, but shining, brighter than the Arkenstone ever had. Sebastian moved his hand up John’s face to brush away a stray strand of hair, and could’ve sworn he felt the tip of a hobbit ear as he did so.

John slowly began to smile. “Suppose we were thinking the same thing, after all,” he said. 

It was enough to make Sebastian laugh. “And for that, I’m very grateful.” He wanted to give his apology with all the regality his past life could muster, but one look at John’s face told him it wasn’t necessary. Maybe later, if at all. Bilbo Baggins would’ve taken it with a nod, perhaps, but more than likely would’ve simply apologized himself. He had a feeling John was much the same way, and if Sebastian heard another apology fall from the man’s lips, it would be way too soon.

“Was that what you would’ve told me? That day?”

“If my mind hadn’t been completely ruined, then yes,” Sebastian said. The skin beneath his fingertips was so soft, and he couldn’t stop from lightly tracing a pattern on John’s cheek. The blush he got was just the icing on the cake. “I would’ve asked you to stay with me.”

John blinked. “Wait, stay?” he said, and that pulled Sebastian from his thoughts. “As in, with you? Permanently?”

“With me, permanently,” Sebastian repeated. “In Erebor. I wanted you there, by my side. As my friend, my most cherished friend.”

If John had been given everything in the world, he still didn’t think the other man would’ve looked as stunned or grateful as he did then. “If you’d asked…I would’ve stayed,” John confessed, voice barely a breath. “I nearly did even after I’d been cast out.”

The quiet admission was more than Sebastian had been expecting, and his heart felt like it would burst. “No casting out, not now, not ever,” he swore, before he grinned. “Though I’ll cast you to bed in a moment; it’s late.”

John raised both eyebrows. “And you haven’t even bought me dinner yet,” he said dryly.

Too late Sebastian realized how it his words had come across. “I meant to sleep,” he managed with a steady voice, though his face warmed. “It’s been a long day.”

The small smile on John’s face fell. “Yeah, it has,” he murmured. After a moment, Sebastian reached out and tugged John into an embrace. He’d held Bilbo like this, a lifetime ago, when they’d escaped death at Azog’s hands. It had been the first time he’d truly let himself see how valuable the hobbit was. It had been the first time he’d allowed himself to care for the hobbit, and it hadn’t been the last. There was no hesitation now as John’s arms tightly wound themselves around Sebastian, not like Bilbo had hesitated that day. The memory left him almost gripping at John for a brief, crazed moment, desperate to not let go for fear of, god, falling or losing the other man. Then it passed, and Sebastian let out a shaky breath.

He gently nudged John to the bed in the corner. “Let me close up the windows; it’ll keep us safe until tomorrow. Then I’ll figure out what to do.” Moriarty was bound to call, and he needed to know who the other sniper was, who right now could be watching the safe house. He doubted it: if anything, the other sniper was probably still searching for them.

He didn’t realize John was waiting for him until he’d finished securing the doors. The mattress rested on the floor, and with the curtains parted, it was easy to see John sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread out on the floor ahead of him. Without his jacket and shoes on, he looked just like the hobbit he’d thought so much of. “Please don’t make me argue with you about where you’ll bunk for the night,” John said. “There’s plenty of room. I could use the company tonight.”

It wasn’t said in a lecherous tone; it was quiet, nearly a plea. Without a word Sebastian joined him, shucking his boots as he went. There was plenty of room on the bed for two grown men, but he still found himself gravitating to the middle, where John joined him. After that, it felt only natural to wrap his arms around the other man, if just to keep him warm. The blankets would do a fine job of that, but that wasn’t the point.

He’d held Bilbo like this, one night. The cold winds had blown through the camp, and when everyone had started laying out their bedrolls, they’d been miserable and loud about it. It had only been when he’d counted to ensure everyone was there that he’d realized Bilbo hadn’t said a thing, though the hobbit had obviously been frozen. The others had turned in while Bilbo had sat up by the fire. Thorin had taken the small hobbit under his cloak, feeling toes and fingers as cold as ice against him, apologies tumbling from shaking lips. He’d merely pulled him closer.

John didn’t hold the same chill that Bilbo had, but Sebastian pulled him in all the same. The words from an age ago fell softly from his lips. “Sleep, little burglar; I will keep you this night.”

Fingers clutched at him, and John buried his face in Sebastian’s chest. If his shirt got damp, he didn’t say anything. Sebastian’s head felt like a ferris wheel out of control: he could only imagine the roller coaster John’s was.

Despite the turbulent ride that wouldn’t stop in his head, Sebastian still drifted into sleep.

 

When John woke up, it was to his head slowly lifting up and down. He blearily forced his eyes open.

Somehow, in the middle of the night, they’d rearranged themselves. Sebastian was on his back, his chest John’s pillow. His arms wrapped tight around John, with John’s hands clutched in his shirt. Their legs were tangled, and overall it was one of the best ways John had woken up in months.

Everything from yesterday seemed to hit him in a flash. Mrs. Hudson, Sebastian, Sherlock, god _Sherlock_ , Sebastian saving him, riding beside him as a silent strength in the cab, the safe house, running, Gandalf, Thorin and Sebastian and _Sebastian_ -

“Hmm?” 

John stopped. Sebastian looked up at him, eyes slowly blinking open. “Did you say my name?” he asked sleepily, as if not caring that John had made him his personal pillow.

“Um, no,” John said. “But I can if you like.”

Sebastian grinned. “Cheeky. I like this new you. Much cheekier than the hobbit was.”

“I could’ve been cheeky then.”

“You could’ve, yes. If you’d stayed in Erebor, I’m sure you would’ve.”

God, the dream of a lifetime, laid out and given to him as if he’d never betrayed Thorin. The hurts of several lifetimes couldn’t fade away with a few words, but they could certainly start to heal. Gandalf’s barrage of words from last night had hurt even while he’d clung to them, in the hope that he really hadn’t destroyed and damned the races of Middle-Earth. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps…perhaps what he’d done with the ring had been the right thing for him to do. Maybe things had turned out for the best that way.

And maybe one day, he’d let himself believe it. He was tentatively starting to. He’d spent so many years asking what-ifs that to not have them pounding in his head was…startling. And almost uneasy. _Been hanging around Sherlock too long, if being at peace bothers me,_ he thought, and there was the pang of grief, right where he’d thought it would be. Last night, it had overwhelmed him. If Sebastian had cared about the state of his shirt, he hadn’t said anything while John had silently wept into it.

A hand slid up his side in a soft caress, and he lifted his head. Sebastian’s lips pursed with concern. “I’m sorry,” the sniper said at last. God knew for what – half a dozen things, like all the apologies he probably still wanted to say. Not today, if John had any say.

He pushed himself up and caught the other man’s lips with his. “Me too,” he whispered. Though he’d never be sorry for kissing him. Last night…he never would’ve dreamt of last night. He’d hardly dared to dream up a final farewell from Thorin that hadn’t involved the dwarf hating him; last night had been nothing short of a miracle.

Even now, Sebastian’s lips turned upward. “Good morning indeed,” he murmured, and John huffed a laugh even as he found himself being kissed again.

Three knocks on the door echoed through the room.

John froze. Sebastian immediately sprang into action. He pulled his handgun from beneath his pillow and aimed it at the door. His next move was to tug John beside him and behind him as he slowly stood to face whomever was there. “Who knows about this place?” John whispered.

“Three people, including me,” Sebastian murmured. “And none of them would be coming here anytime soon.”

Shit. John looked around for his jacket, desperately finding his own gun. Sebastian glared at him when he stood as well, but if Sebastian thought he was going to hide behind the sniper any more than Bilbo had hidden behind Thorin, well, he had another thing coming.

Slowly they advanced on the door. Sebastian held up three fingers, then pointing to the door. John nodded, hands steady on his gun. Sebastian began to count down, peering through the peephole to see who was there.

John only began to panic when Sebastian’s face lost all color. “Who is it?” he hissed.

Then suddenly Sebastian threw open the door, gazing in shock at whoever was there. John quickly stepped to a vantage point, blinking against the bright sunshine.

What he saw nearly made him blink again. Two men stood on the doorstep, staring back with wide eyes of their own. Then the one on the left gave a laugh. “God it’s good to see you,” he said.

“Fili,” Sebastian choked out. “Kili, god-“

“At your service,” the two intoned together, then raced forward, laughing and hollering and wrapping themselves around Sebastian. Sebastian clutched at them like they were the last drops of water on the earth, eyes brimming with tears. John felt his shoulders drop in relief, putting the safety on and tucking his gun away. Behind the two was Gandalf, who looked far too pleased with himself.

The wizard let out a booming laugh when Kili abandoned his uncle and raced over to John, sweeping him up as easily as he had in Middle-Earth, and really, couldn’t any of them have been as short as John? Really? Then Fili was there and Sebastian was cracking up, the bastard, and it wasn’t John’s fault he was a little shorter than everyone else.

When he was finally set down, Fili and Kili began rambling off about how they’d met with Gandalf and couldn’t believe it and had they ever played Angry Birds and a dozen more things about, well, everything. John caught Sebastian’s eyes from across the room and gave him a bright smile. Sebastian’s returning smile was warm, happiness all but leaking out of the man’s pores. It was more than John, _Bilbo_ , had ever expected to have in any lifetime. He thought about how many lives he’d spent wandering through the world, empty and wishing he would find Thorin, someone, anyone. Yet he’d always expected that he wouldn’t.

Somehow, across lifetimes, they’d made it, and found each other again. Somehow, they’d been allowed a second chance.

John wasn’t going to waste it. And from the look on Sebastian’s face, neither was he.

“Boys,” Sebastian said, somehow cutting through the din that was Fili and Kili, “I have something to tell the both of you.” He didn’t take his eyes off of John.

John’s smile broadened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, y'all wanted Fili and Kili, and it was too good not to put them in. I adore those two loons.
> 
> There's a sequel in this small series now! Follow the series link to A Second War.


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